Today’s age of marathons as spectacles, 26.2 miles need to be something more than just a race in order to attract the masses. The 3-Countries Marathon offers peripatetic marathoners the chance to check three nations off of their international to-do lists in one morning’s work. Yet the race is refreshingly devoid of pomp, with nary a theme park, metropolitan skyline or live rock band dominating the course. Instead, the race remains modestly sized and continues to rely on the history and natural scenery of the route. In fact, were it not for the dead giveaway of the race’s name, you wouldn’t have any idea that you were passing from one country to another.

This year, rain has returned to the small island town of Lindau, Germany. Though clear skies brought the tourists and shoppers out in force yesterday, this morning’s weather is more reminiscent of that which flooded the area a few weeks earlier. Driftwood that was carried down the Rhine from Austria and Switzerland and out into Lake Constance is still washing up against the sailboats in Lindau’s small enclosed harbor.

Regardless, the Bahnhofplatz is still bustling. Instead of street vendors, the harbor’s edge is lined by clusters of spandex-clad men and women, the smell of coffee from the sidewalk cafes replaced by the reek of linament. As some runners hustle into town to pick up their numbers, others huddle in doorways and under awnings, hoping to stay dry until the start of the sixth 3-Countries Marathon.

Unlike many of the other towns in this region, which tend to feature an eclectic mix of architecture—stone and brick juxtaposed with steel and glass—Lindau has a more uniform look. Densely populated and veined with tight, cobbled sidewalks and streets, Lindau is filled with old buildings and dotted with cathedrals.

As I wait for the start of the race, I wander the streets aimlessly, trying to find the location of the church bell that’s echoing through town. Fortunately for me, Lindau is large enough to get lost in but small enough to find your way. After 15 minutes of wandering, I’m no closer to the bell and decide to find the starting line instead. When I finally emerge by the harbor again, it’s unrecognizable: The street is so packed it’s impossible to move toward the correct corral. Only 1,230 runners will complete the marathon today, but once you add the half marathon, quarter marathon, kids’ race, and nordic walk, there are more than 5,000 people taking part in the event this year.

When the gun finally fires, we spill into town, weaving through Lindau for the first kilometer before emptying onto mainland Germany, where we swing east, toward Austria. The street eventually turns into a bike path, with the shore of Lake Constance to our right. Up ahead, the path arcs to the southeast toward Bregenz, the capital of Vorarlberg, Austria’s western-most region. To our left is the lush green slope of the Pfander, its peak, 1,000 meters above us, obscured in clouds. The rain has been light thus far, but the beautiful views across the water to the snowcapped peaks of Switzerland have been wiped out by the fog.

Pockets of spectators, sparse since leaving the island, become more frequent as we near Bregenz. Some seem befuddled that so many people would choose this particular activity on such a grim morning; others carry signs in support of friends and family. Many are chanting "Hopp! Hopp! Hopp!," a popular ski cheer on the European alpine circuit. Though I don’t know any German, the meaning is clear: Go!

As we near Bregenz, one of Vorarlberg’s most famous attractions comes into view: the stage for the Bregenzer Festspiele. This season’s performance is a modernized version of Verdi’s "The Troubadour," and the massive floating stage looks as if it has more to do with refining oil than fine arts, all metal pipes and smoke stacks. Heading into town we pass another major tourist destination: the striking glass Kunsthaus, home to Bregenz’s modern art museum.

Though Bregenz is of modest size, with a population of just 25,000, and isn’t exactly on the typical European vacation itinerary, the town has much to offer. Nestled in the Rhine Valley between Germany, Liechtenstein and Switzerland, Vorarlberg is affected as much by these neighbors as by eastern Austria. After all, Bregenz is as close to Paris as Vienna and nearer to Milan than Salzburg.

For the outdoorsman, the region has obvious allures beyond the watersports available on Lake Constance. Germany and Switzerland are both reachable in the course of a run or bike ride from Bregenz, and Liechtenstein is just a few miles away as well. All three countries are linked by a series of gorgeous traffic-free routes. Vorarlberg boasts more than 6,000 kilometers of hiking trails, and several hundred kilometers of bike paths that connect the towns. Whether you’re looking to do some rugged single-track trail running or a flat and fast workout, you’ll be able to find what you need, often in the course of the same run. With regional trains connecting the towns, you need only pack a small bag to go off on a new running adventure every day.

Runners who find their way deeper into Vorarlberg should stop at the local tourism office, where a pamphlet of running routes is available for free. Inspired by the town’s mayor, Wilfried Berchtold, who is an avid runner, the pamphlet includes maps and detailed descriptions of 15 routes on the town’s trails: they vary from paved bike paths that lead to the Rhine and into Switzerland to a lighted quarter-mile wood-chip path that you can run at night. Distances vary from 2.2 to 11K.

As the marathon heads through Bregenz, we get a brief taste of the region’s trails. The bike path that we’ve been on for the past few miles turns to dirt, and, as the rain increases, each stride kicks up a thin stream of mud. In the forested Mehrerauer Seeufer, the course passes the stadium where we’ll be finishing in a couple of hours. The field thins as the 10K runners break off, their morning’s effort nearly done. For the rest of us, the giddiness of the early miles has faded, and we slowly become more focused on the task at hand.

Personally, I start to realize that I’m not exactly overheating. At 13K, I pass a water stop that’s stocked with everything: water, sports drink, Coke, and, what sounds to me like, "Bier!" That seems pretty odd, but the cups are filled with brown liquid. A couple miles later, my curiosity gets the better of me: I grab a cup from a volunteer and am pleasantly shocked to find that it is warm, and non-alchoholic. For the rest of the race, I go out of my way to find the volunteers calling "Tee! Tee! Tee!"

The locals’ penchant for steel and glass seems to stretch beyond art museums to bridges, which wouldn’t be so disconcerting if the rains hadn’t turned the muddy Bregenzerach into a raging rapid. With the marathoners crossing the Harder-brücke in one direction and the half marathoners doubling back in the other, the bridge bounces in rhythm with some strides and bucks up to interfere with others. On the far side, the course enters the ominously named town of Hard, a quaint farming village—and, despite its name, as flat as the rest of the course.

While Austria and Germany are members of the European Union, Switzerland has remained independent. This means that passports are often checked at the border, though this is largely a formality and has been waived on race day. When we pass into the race’s third country, the border is evident only because a handful of sentries are standing idly by, watching us pass.

In every marathon, there’s a point where increasing fatigue and decreasing spectator support collide. With the exhausted pleasure of finishing still too far away to provide even imagined relief, this is the time to swear you’ll never put your body through a marathon again. At 3-Countries, this point was reached somewhere on an elevated bike path that links Switzerland and Austria.

The scenery matched the quieter mood: Below, lush green pastures lay to the left, and the Rhine to the right. The loudest noise heard on this stretch, between 29 and 32K, was the clatter of cowbells.

Everyone in the race, it seemed, had turned inward. Conversations stopped. All were focused intently on the shuffle of the runner in front of them, trying to avoid looking at the vast straightaway ahead.

Once that long stretch mercifully came to an end, we began retracing our path back to Bregenz—through Hard, across the shaking bridge (which was thankfully stable now that just a few runners were crossing), and onto the forgiving dirt paths of Mehrerauer Seeufer.

Most spectators had long since abandoned the course for warmer and drier locales, so the encouraging chants of "Hopp! Hopp! Hopp!" were now few and far between. Instead, the final kilometers were fueled by thoughts of finishing, and the warm tea and hot showers that awaited us when we crossed the line. This seemed fitting, in a way, since those simple touches—rather than any grand theme or spectacle—are what makes this a special race.

After crossing the finish and receiving my medal, I walked through the chute and was handed a familiar-looking brown drink. But I was to be surprised again. This one was cold. There was nothing lost in translation this time. Even as I stood shivering in the rain, that beer hit the spot.